


Keeping Away My Lonesome Blues

by Blue_Thallium



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, Post-Scratch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-12
Updated: 2012-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-29 09:31:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/318411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Thallium/pseuds/Blue_Thallium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Scratch!Dave/John</p><p>Dave is trying to get into stand up. It's not going very well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keeping Away My Lonesome Blues

So it turns out audiences just aren’t ready for a ten minute set on the dos and don’ts of jerking someone off in a truck stop bathroom, and your spot on the open mic night goes down like you in a truck stop bathroom. Some guy comes up after you and does something a lot gentler. The audience laughs this time.  
Your head thunks heavily against the bar, and after about three seconds a bouncer taps you on the shoulder. He promises not to confiscate your fake ID if you leave, and don’t come back again. Sounds pretty fair to you.  
The wind outside is bitter, and you throw an abandoned cola can at a nearby empty bus stop. Take that, society.

You then realise you actually have to wait at that fucking bus stop to get back to your stupid foster home. You went on a little later than planned, and there isn’t another bus for an hour, now.  
You throw a small rock at the bus stop before submitting to it.  
You’re soon joined by some guy. He’s tall, and silhouetted. He’s wearing glasses, and a ridiculous old man moustache.

“I liked your set, kid.” He says. You snort.

“Sure you did.” You’re pretty sure that’s just code for ‘Nice ass, how much for the evening.’

“I really did.” He says, and you can hear a smile on his voice. “Too blue for that crowd, though. And it was pretty niche material. You’d probably go over well some where with a younger clientele, or something.” He’s definitely trying to engage you in conversation. You’re kind of just waiting for him to say something gross. “You’ve gotta learn how to adapt your material for different audiences.“

“Well fuck, Mister, what are you, some kind of fucking comedy expert?” You ask. He sniggers, and sticks out his hand (you recoil).

“The name’s John Crocker.” He says simply. You wonder if it’s physically possible for a human to suck all of their extremities into their torso, because holy fuck would that come in handy now.

“So you’re some kind of fucking comedy expert, okay.” You drag your hand over your face, then hold out the other one. “Hi, my name is I’m-a-horse’s-ass-that-mistook-you-for-an-old-creep-looking-for-some-pale-under-aged-tail-to-ride.” You say. He laughs; the sound is clear, and bright.

“I just wanted to tell you, I think you’ve got real potential.”

You sort of feel like you could throw up. “Cool.” You say. Your voice cracks. Why does it still do that? You’re not fucking twelve.

“And, if you don’t have somewhere you need to be, can I buy you a sandwich, and hear some more of your stuff?” He asks. You can almost feel the warmth radiating from him. God, you’re blushing. Maybe you should ask him to sign your tits or something.  
No you shouldn’t. You shouldn’t speak again.

Except you need to reply to him, because social norms dictate it. You can’t leave him hanging.

“Well, I guess, but I gotta be back here for the bus in an hour.” You tell him, your voice shaking. It’s because you’re cold, not because you’re excited as shit. “I’m cold.” You blurt.

“I’m not surprised kid; you don’t even have a jacket.” You’re depressed by how long it takes you to recognise genuine concern. He stands, and nods for you to follow. And you do.

He pisses himself at your other material, and you end up kind of grinning dumbly at him, because no one thinks you’re funny but you. Fucking John Crocker thinks you’re funny. John Crocker has to wipe a tear out of the corner of his eye because you told an extremely puerile joke about giving head.

Most of your material is kind of explicitly sexual. Crocker asks you how a kid so young could have so much experience. You tell him you exaggerate a lot. And, for some reason, you tell him about when you turned tricks for a couple of weeks when you ran away from the children’s home.  
You don’t know why you tell him. It’s the stupidest, most humiliating thing you ever did, and you find yourself telling some stranger. Well, some stranger you’ve been watching on TV since you were like… Born, you guess.  
He looks heartbroken on your behalf, and asks for your life story.

With a shrug, you give it to him. There’s seriously not that much to tell – born to a teenage junky and her dealer, taken away from a teenage junky and her dealer, ten years of acting like a little shit and a year spent getting your act together (stay in school kids) – and he hangs on your every word, brow knitted together like he actually cares. You never know, maybe he does. He might adopt you. It’ll be like Annie up in this house. Shit.

*

Crocker doesn’t adopt you, but he gives you a ride home, his office’s number and a gig. He says the crowd’ll appreciate you a lot more at this place, but you’ll have to go in and out through the kitchen, because they don’t want minors near the bar.

*

 

It goes… really well. John was in the audience with a warm twinkle in his eye, and even though you were shitting yourself, you found that him being there really calmed you down.  
People laughed. People shook in their seats. No one (who isn’t you) laughs at you that much. You’re so buzzed when you come off stage; you spend an hour fucking skipping around the city, John in tow.

“I still can’t fucking believe it, man!” You yell. He chuckles, shushing you. “Crocker, _you_ are my fucking lord and saviour.” You say, and you point at him, and you point _really_ hard, so he fucking knows he’s being pointed at.

“Bow down and worship, Strider.” He snorts. “And don’t thank me again. It’s getting annoying.”

“Okay. Just.” You know the stupid shit eating grin you’ve got on right now is lame as fuck, but you don’t care, you’re just so damn happy, and grateful. “I’m really glad I didn’t tell you to fuck off when we met.”

“I’m glad you didn’t tell me to fuck off, too.”

*

You sort of become Crocker’s protégé. He does a couple of special shows in the city around Christmas time, and you warm up for him. His comedy is a lot broader than yours, and nowhere near as mean or dry, so the crowds look a little taken aback. You use your softer material, and they settle into it eventually. Hopefully, you just came off as kind of bawdy rather than creepy.

Crocker is fucking hilarious. The crowd is like putty in his hand, and he barely has to raise an eyebrow to get a laugh out of the audience. He’s a brilliant physical comedian, and when he turns it on properly, every little face or twitch has you laughing so hard, you’re wheezing silently in your seat, tears streaming down your face.  
Your styles are polar opposites, but you wish you could work a crowd the same way. Maybe you’d do it with a lilt of your voice or a tip of your shades.  
When he gets off the stage, he asks you how he was, and you say “Total shit.” And he cuffs you round the back of the head.  
Then your go all high pitched and sickly sweet, and tell him he’s a genius.  
“Did you ever know that you’re my hero?” You say. John almost starts to look touched, and then you carry on. “You’re everything that I want to be.”

He rolls his eyes. “And here I thought you were being serious for one.”

“I am serious. You can fly higher than an eagle.” You’ve broken out into song. “ _You are the wind beneath my wings._ ” You croon. Again, he cuffs you around the back of the head.

He takes you to meet his kid, who’s actually a few years older than you are, and John introduces him as “Junior.”  
He looks a little old to be a Junior, really.

Either way, he’s a nice guy, and he looks kind of like John, but not really. He still has braces, and he wears a neat, close cropped hair cut. He doesn’t smile much, but you’d be embarrassed too, having a mouth full of metal at his age.  
Honestly, your crooked teeth could probably benefit from a good set of grown up braces, but as if you’d ever lived any place with money like that.

John takes you both out to dinner, and when he asks Junior what he thinks of your stuff, he nods and smiles slightly.  
“It’s good. A lot… dirtier than I thought it was going to be.”

“The boyish good looks tend to throw people off.” You tell him, with a nod. Truth be told, you’ve got a face like a fucking angel, and people do expect you to kind of float on stage and tell some weird, surreal jokes about fairies or kittens or something.  
It’s part of the reason you wear the shades, and part of the reason you’ve been trying to entice someone to break your nose for the last few months.

Junior only picks at his meal, and orders two desserts, and John scorns him, and tells him he wishes he had an appetite as healthy as yours.  
You feel pretty smug about that.

*  
You’re invited to the Crocker’s for Christmas day, which is… well, it’s weird, really, because you’ve never had a real family Christmas before.

The Crocker house is a fucking palace, and you’re almost afraid to touch anything in case you get poor-germs on it.

Junior brings his girlfriend, and John sighs “If only your mother were here.” Then he turns to you and says “She’s not dead, by the way. If she were here, I wouldn’t be shelling out all of that alimony money.”

Junior’s girlfriend (red head, named Sarah or Sandy or something) is practically in tears the whole night because she thinks John is so damn funny. She’s obviously a fan. When she laughs at your jokes to, you tell Junior you think she’s a real keeper.

They open presents after chatting for a while, and you’re far too used to getting very little to nothing at Christmas to feel jealous at all. It’s just kind of nice to see what Christmas is like outside of a home full of miserable kids who miss their incompetent Mommies and Daddies.

You woke up this morning to a small gift from your social worker (a new game for your Gameboy) and a card from your mother (Dear Dave, Merry Crissmas, I miss you baby, love Mommy xxxxxxxxxxxxxx) which contained ten dollars and a picture of her, and her new boyfriend, Your parents have a pretty on-again-off-again relationship, and it looks like they’re off again right now. She’s the most haggard looking twenty nine year old (or is she thirty now?) you’ve ever seen, and her boyfriend has a mullet.

You put the picture in your wallet.

There’s a card from your Dad too (Dear Dave, Merry Christmas, have a good one, Dad.) but it’s not quite as sentimental. At least they both sent you something.

You snap off your train of thought when John pokes your leg, and dumps a little pile of presents onto your lap.

“Dave, it’s your turn.” He says. You look at the presents. You look at John. You look back at the presents again.

“You got me stuff?”

“Duh. It is Christmas.” You think John might be the only old man in existence who can pull off a ‘duh’.

“But I didn’t get you anything.” You say, brow furrowing guiltily.

“You’re presence here is gift enough.” He says with a roll of his eyes, “Now open your damn gifts.”

He got you a jacket (A nice expensive, warm looking jacket), a book on the history of stand-up comedy (a nice, expensive, hardback book on the history of stand-up comedy), a new cassette player (it looks frigging expensive too, and the one you have right now barely plays any more) headphones and some tapes of music you’d mentioned you like. It’s mostly old R&B and some David Bowie thrown in for good measure.

You’re completely dumb struck. No one buys you shit. Not even your own mother buys you shit. Well, obviously she never buys you shit, if she bought shit when you were a little kid, you’d still be living with her.  
You say thank you. You say it like ten times, till John shuts you up and shoves a flute of champagne in your hand.

Junior leaves for his Mom’s, and you drink more champagne.

John gets a guy in to cook Christmas dinner for you, and it’s goose, and all these amazing vegetables and potatoes, and it’s just like Christmases on TV.

“Jeez Crocker, you do realise I’m coming back every fucking year, don’t you?” You say. “Probably every day. You should just adopt me now, man. Or at least get me a collar with your address on it, so people know where to take me if I wander off.”

“My Mother always said not to feed strays.” He sighs.

Later, you sit on his big, plush couch, and watch It’s a Wonderful Life on his big TV, because it’s on, and John looks horrified when you tell him you’ve never seen it all the way through. He asks you if you want dessert, and when you say yes, he pops out to the kitchen, then hits you square in the face with a pie a moment later.  
Needless to say, he is choking with laughter. You are sticky. And when you go to the bathroom to wash up, a bucket of water lands on your head.

John is whooping in the living room, and yells, “This was my Christmas gift to myself!”

Once he’s calmed down (it takes him a full fifteen minutes) he apologises, and takes you upstairs to one of the bathrooms. You towel off your hair, and John comes in with one of Junior’s old T-shirts. He promises to wash and dry yours.  
You take off your shirt, and take Junior’s, and John is still chuckling to himself.

“I’m taking this shit to the papers, you know. John Crocker acts like a sweetheart in public, then covers innocent teenaged boys in cream behind closed doors.” You tell him as you tug on the shirt. You then busy yourself washing the pie crust off your shades.

“I’m sorry, it’s tradition. I used to almost always do Junior, but he had to leave for his Mom’s before the appropriate Christmas pranking time.” “Really, it was better like this, because Junior would have expected both. That gag is still fresh to you.”

“It’s about as fresh as a used tampon.”

He snorts, and then suddenly goes a little serious. He sits on the edge of his bath and sighs.

“What?” You ask.

“I know it’s only been a few months since we met, but you’ve come a really long way.” He says.

“Thanks, Crocker.”

“I’m really proud of you.”

You don’t know where the fuck it comes from, but you feel your bottom lip quivering, and you’re suddenly kind of crying. Maybe it’s just the weirdness of the whole day piling up on you, but seriously. This isn’t a thing you do. That’s what you say - _this is so weird and totally a thing I don’t do_ \- but you can’t seem to stop now you’ve started. He takes you into his arms, and he says he’s sorry, and you tell him you don’t need his goddamn pity.  
Truthfully, you do. You’ve never needed any one’s pity more. It’s his pity that got you where you are now – you might actually make something of yourself. You want him to keep pitying you. You admire him so much, he’s like practically you’re fucking hero – and the words are cascading from your mouth like your salty, pathetic tears.

“I don’t pity you, Dave.” He says. And he pets your hair. You’re just embarrassed and you want this to stop, but you can’t. “I care about you a lot.”  
And to be honest, you have absolutely no idea how to deal with feeling so looked after. You almost thought you felt loved there for a second, but that would be a really pathetic thing to feel.  
You just bury yourself into his neck, and think dimly about how good he smells – which is a little wrong, but it’s distracting.  
“I think you’re wonderful. And I’m sorry you had such a shitty life so far, and I just… I want you to have what you deserve.”  
You just whine his name at him. He shifts away from you, and takes your face in his hands, swipes at your tears with his thumbs, which are soft and almost a little like leather.

There are so many things you want to tell him that you’re not going to, because they’re all stupid and gay, and they’d make you sound like a Joni Mitchell song.  
John’s just holding your face, taking away your tears, smiling kindly at you, and caring about you so damn much.

You turn thirty the same year he turns eighty, and even though this thought bangs at the door of your mind like a Jehovah’s Witness, you totally ignore it as you bat his hands from your face, and lunge in for a kiss.

He resists you, mumbling protests, and then he reciprocates, and you’re so happy. You can’t use your words – you can’t use them at all, but you can use your body, and you can let him use you.

You mutter “Thank you,” against his lips. He pushes you away then.

“I can’t do this.” He says, twiddling nervously with his moustache (which tickled your lip something awful) “Just look at you.” He says. He puts his hand back on your face, and gently palms your cheek. “Dave, just look at you.” He swallows, and leans in close, and presses his forehead to yours. You wrap your arms around his neck, and hold him like a vice. “What am I doing here?” He asks, in a whisper.

“Me?” You reply. He half sniggers.

“Not appropriate.”

“I dunno if you’ve noticed yet man, but appropriate isn’t really my thing.”

He hugs you. And you stay like that for a while.

You call the home and tell them you’re staying the night, and your crawl into bed with John at Midnight, after more food and more movies. You’re fully clothed, and he intends you to stay that way.

He sleeps with you pressed to his chest, fatherly but with a distinct air of _something else_ and complete restraint. He is probably wondering what he’s gotten himself into.  
You’re wondering the same thing yourself.


End file.
